He turned round slowly. Nebula seemed to have melted away, leaving no trace. Or was he behind one of those trees lined up in rows, watching him? Or inside the temple, perhaps, in some hiding place only he knew about, chuckling at Publius Sextius’s astonishment at such a vanishing trick? As the centurion scanned the land all around, he noticed a leather scroll tied with a string lying on the temple steps. He picked it up and opened it. It was a map of the route he was to follow to get to Rome.
At that moment the sun finally began to break through the fog and stripe the ground with shadows. Publius Sextius put a couple of fingers in his mouth and whistled, then watched as a bay horse promptly trotted up. He jumped on to its back and spurred the horse on.
‘No need to break your neck, centurion!’ rang out a voice. ‘It won’t be today, or even tomorrow.’
But Publius Sextius had already disappeared from sight.
Nebula came out from behind a stack of bundled twigs left by the men pruning the grapevines. ‘Then again, maybe it will,’ he said to himself.
Modena, the Scoltenna River Inn, 8 March, eight a.m.
The river rushing nearby, swollen by recent rains, was just as loud as the buzz of the regulars and the customers planning to spend the night. Nebula entered after wiping his boots on the mat at the entrance and crossed the nonetheless muddy floor of the inn, settling into a spot in a corner at the back near the kitchen. The person he was waiting for was not long in arriving.
‘Well? How did it go, then?’
‘There are two missions, not one. Both are vital for the man who holds supreme power in our republic.’
‘Where is your man now?’
‘He’s racing faster than the wind along the shortest route that leads back to Rome.’
‘What does that mean?’
Nebula gave a sigh, but said nothing.
‘All right. How much do you want?’
‘To get this information I was forced to go into debt and risk my very life.’
‘What a bastard you are, Nebula. Spit it out and let’s get this over with.’
‘He’s following a map that I made for him. I’m the only one who knows the route.’
‘How much?’
‘Ten thousand.’
‘Forget it.’
Nebula shrugged. ‘Too bad. That means I’ll have to make a hasty retreat before my creditors send me to the underworld. Into Pluto’s arms. But if I die, it’s all over, just remember that.’
‘Come outside,’ growled the other man, a veteran of the civil war who had fought on Pompey’s side. His arms had more scars than the paws of a wolf caught in a trap.
Outside, they walked over to a cart under the close watch of a couple of nonchalant but clearly armed thugs.
‘You can put the money on my mule,’ said Nebula, handing him a copy of the map.
The man stuck it into his belt, then smiled smugly. ‘Now that I think about it, it seems that two hundred ought to be enough.’
‘Do you really imagine you can screw Nebula? An idiot like you?’
The smirk disappeared from the other man’s face.
‘You think you’re so clever. You’ll be giving me all of it, down to the very last penny. There’s a key for reading the map and the fellow who’s got it works for you lot at the Medias horse-changing station. Weasel-faced guy named Mustela. He’s in with me on this, you see, and he’ll open his mouth only after you’ve given him my receipt for payment, which you’ll find in the usual place. By then I’ll be long gone. Oh, and by the way, Mustela is included in the price. He’ll do the walking, because you’d never manage it on your own.’
The man nodded, cursing under his breath, and transferred the money, all of it, on to the mule’s packsaddle. Nebula then mounted and set off at an easy trot.
‘I forgot to tell you,’ he added. ‘As soon as you have the receipt you’d better get a move on, because Mustela won’t wait long.’
Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 8 March, ten a.m.
The storm had abated and, having gathered up his papers, Silius went from his office to Caesar’s.
‘There are documents here to be signed, commander.’
‘What are they?’ asked Caesar, raising his eyes from the scroll he was writing on.
Silius couldn’t help but notice that he was doing the writing himself, in contrast to his usual practice. Since the day they’d met, Silius had always seen him dictating his thoughts. During the Gallic campaign he’d even heard Caesar, on horseback, dictating two letters at the same time, for two different recipients. But since Caesar had returned from Spain he’d taken to doing his own writing, as he worked on correcting and revising his
‘All acts to be submitted to the Senate for their approval: decrees, appropriations, payments for the army, special financing for paving a road in Anatolia. . the usual. And there’s correspondence.’
Caesar looked up sharply with an inquisitive expression.
‘Not from him, commander. Don’t worry. As soon as something comes in, it will be on your table in the blink of an eye. Or it will find you wherever you are.’
Caesar continued writing, hiding his disappointment. ‘Who are the letters from, then?’
‘Pollio, in Cordova. .’
‘Right.’
‘Plancus, in Gaul. .’
‘Anything marked urgent?’
‘Pollio. The situation is Spain is still difficult.’
‘Let me see.’
Silius handed him Pollio’s letter, sent seventeen days earlier. Caesar broke the seal and gave the missive a quick look. Silius noticed his wide brow furrowing.
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘Everything that happens in Spain is serious. Pompey’s followers are still strong and still looking for a fight, despite it all. At Munda I was ready to commit suicide.’
‘Yes, commander. I was there too, but in the end we pulled through.’
‘So many deaths, though. . They’ll never forgive me for that. Thirty thousand Romans cut to pieces by my men.’
‘They had it coming, Caesar. They asked for it.’
‘I see you like reminding me of my own words.’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘No, it’s not. The phrase has a certain propaganda value, but it doesn’t hold up to in-depth analysis. No one willingly chooses to die. The massacre of that many valiant warriors was an intolerable waste. Just imagine, if they were still alive, they could come with me to make war on the Parthians. . or garrison the borders of a world at peace.’
He began scribbling on a tablet with a silver stylus that Cleopatra had given him.
‘You know. . lately I’ve been adding up a few numbers.’
‘What kind of numbers, commander?’
‘I’ve been counting the Roman soldiers killed in combat against other Romans during the civil wars. Marius against Sulla, Pompey against Sertorius, me against Pompey and then against Scipio and Cato at Tapsus, then against Pompey’s sons and against Labienus at Munda. .’
‘What are you thinking?’
